Chapter 26
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Bryan
T hey call it the dungeon —our private chamber of pain and persuasion. Our tools displayed with gleaming purpose, the bloodstained floor a macabre statement of what this room has witnessed.
The psychological torture is foreplay—all part of the experience.
While our two guests sit bound and waiting, they have nothing to do but stare at the tools and wonder. Which one will we choose first? Will they walk out of this room?
We’re the Dublin Beast and the Dublin Brute.
They know what’s coming. They expect pain.
And given my mood the past few days, it’s the perfect place for a little emotional therapy.
Brendan’s leaning against the far wall, arms crossed, eyes sharp. I’m pacing—slow, deliberate—like a lion circling a pair of rabbits dumb enough to wander into his cage.
Tag stands between us, dressed like he’s attending an executive brunch instead of a beatdown, but his eyes are all business.
He jerks his chin toward the scrawny fucks in the chairs. “These two were spotted sneaking across the river, so I took a page out of your playbook, Bryan. I had Kieran use his little drone to follow them and see what they’ve been up to.”
By the sudden spike of fear and the loss of color in their faces, I’d guess they didn’t know why they were here until just now.
I lift my chin. “So, what have the fuckers been up to?”
Tag grins. “It seems they have a connection with Billy Gravely and might be part of his plans for taking over our territory.”
He steps in closer, voice turning to gravel. “And now they’re going to tell us what those plans are. I want details, dates, names, every fucking thing you know about what the McGuire’s are plotting.”
The shorter one—Carl, I think—spits on the floor. “We’re not rats.”
Brendan snorts. “You are rats, you fucking traitors. You work for us but cross the river and speak our business into the ears of the McGuires and Gravely? That’s the very definition of being a fucking rat.”
“Fuck you and the bikes you rode in on,” the other guy says. I don’t know that I’ve ever seen him, but honestly, it doesn’t matter. He won’t be around long enough for it to matter.
Tag smiles like he expected nothing less. “All right, this is how it’s going to work. The first person who gives me what I want, walks out of here. The other one dies.”
Carl looks at his asshole friend and then frowns. “Bullshit. The only thing keeping us alive is what we know. If we spill it, you’ll kill us.”
“If you make me wait, I’ll kill you,” Tag corrects. “So, who’s it going to be? There’s only one winner here, lads.”
The two of them lock gazes and seem to come to some kind of unspoken agreement to keep quiet.
Tag shrugs and backs off. “Suit yourselves.”
Brendan and I move in.
My twin takes Carl and I crack my knuckles and stand over the skinny little prick with a mouth full of bravado—like that’s gonna save him.
I don’t start with a punch.
I start with a bitch slap—open-palmed and precise. The sound of it ricochets off the walls, a sharp, wet crack that snaps his head to the side and splits his lip like a peach under pressure.
He snarls, more shocked than hurt. I grab his shirt, haul him to his feet, and slam him into the wall. The building is made of cinderblock, so there’s no give to the collision. It’s like a fly hitting the windshield of a car.
Before he can recover, I swing my fist like a baseball pitcher, arching my sledgehammer punch up, behind my shoulder, and then windmilling it right into his balls.
The thud of my fist is lost to the breathy grunt as he drops to his knees. He wheezes with a wet gasp, face pale, eyes watering.
I don’t say a word. Don’t need to.
Pain speaks loud enough.
Tag steps in again, as calm as the eye of a hurricane. “This is the part where I ask again. Where you two start thinking about how nice it would be to breathe through your nose tomorrow.”
They both stay silent. Bleeding. Shaking.
Tag sighs. “All right, brothers. Give these assholes some incentive to talk.”
This time, I don’t ease in. I grab my guy by the collar, haul him upright, and drive a right cross into his jaw.
He hits the floor like dead weight.
Too much like dead weight, actually.
I stare at him, but he doesn’t move.
Tag’s curse slices through the air. “Fucking hell, Bryan! What part of incentive to talk means a one-punch kill?”
I shrug, my chest heaving. “Oops.”
I don’t feel bad. Not even a little.
My jaw is clenched so tight I can feel it pop in my ears. My knuckles throb. My heart’s a war drum in my chest.
Brendan’s guy glances at the unconscious body beside him, then at Brendan’s still-raised fist.
He raises both hands, fast.
“Okay, stop! I’ll talk.”
Tag nods. “Good lad. I suggest you make it quick before Bryan sets his sights on you next. It seems he’s having trouble with impulse control today.”
I step back, breathing hard, hands sticky with blood. I flex my fingers, bones still twitching from the hit.
It helped.
Not enough.
But it helped.
* * *
The door to the dungeon clicks shut behind me with a finality that echoes in my skull. I roll my neck, trying to shake off the heat still pulsing in my fists. Blood is still singing in my veins like it’s not done. Like it needs another outlet. Another fight. Another reason not to feel a fucking thing.
“Bryan.”
I glance back.
Tag steps out of the holding room, his strides long and angry. When he closes the distance between us, he throws up his hands, jaw tight, watching me like I’m some wild animal he doesn’t want to spook.
“What the hell is going on with you?”
I drag in a slow breath through my nose. My shoulders rise with it. I keep my tone flat, cool. “I’m fine.”
His brow lifts. “Fine, you say. I haven’t seen you this fine in a long time. Not since Yasmine died.”
The name hits me like a gut-punch.
Rage and grief collide in my chest, a storm I can’t hold back. He sees it, too. His gaze narrows, softens.
I drop my head and squeeze my eyes shut. Of course he knows it’s about Yasmine. Tag always sees too much. Even when we were kids, he could smell a lie on your breath before you even opened your mouth.
“Bryan, tell me what’s going on.”
I consider telling him to fuck off. Or to lie. But Tag doesn’t buy bullshit, and he doesn’t back down. He’s the only one of my brothers I never learned to hide from.
I stretch out my neck, the stiff vertebrae giving way to pop with no relief. “I cheated on her, T.”
Tag blinks, caught off guard.
“Harper and I had this unreal physical connection, and I shared myself with her.”
His brow arches like I’ve lost my mind. “Bryan, I know for a fact you’ve fucked at least fifty women since Yasmine’s death. Probably more, if we’re being generous about your definition of discretion .”
I look away, jaw tight, throat thick. He’s not getting it.
“That’s not what I meant.” I scrub a hand over my jaw. “It’s not the sex. It’s the sharing part. I let her in, Tag. She got under my skin, and we connected. For fuck’s sake, I felt something for her.”
His gaze softens.
“It’s been four years, Bryan.”
I don’t respond. I can’t.
He steps in closer and squares off with me, gripping both my arms. “It’s about time you let someone in—it’s past time. You didn’t betray Yasmine by feeling something again—you honored her by surviving her. Stop beating yourself up. You have to stop.”
My chest heaves.
I try to fight it. I try to swallow it. But the tears come anyway, fast and sharp, slicing right through the concrete I’ve poured over my heart for the last four years.
A sound rips out of me—raw, broken—and before I can collapse in on myself, Tag grabs my shoulders and pulls me forward.
I press my face to his shoulder and sob like I haven’t since the night we buried my first love. My knees go weak, and he holds me up, steady as stone.
When the worst of it fades, when I’m nothing but shaken and ashamed, he cups the back of my neck and eases back enough to look at me.
“Go stay at my loft for a bit. Sort yourself out. It helped me to be there when Da died. No eyes on. No pressure. No expectations. Just quiet. Figure out what’s weighing you down and what you need to do to free yourself from it.”
I nod… not because I believe it’ll help…
But because I don’t know what else to do anymore.